by The Bargain
She realized now she'd been wrong to leave the way she had, that she ought to have found the courage to face him and give him a fuller explanation. But her newly found awareness of how she felt about him, of her love, hadn't allowed her to think very clearly; she'd been too frightened of the vulnerability caused by her own feelings to consider his.
Well, now he would make her pay for it, and in spades! She had few illusions about what he was capable of; she'd sensed those barely leashed, flammable emotions smoldering just beneath his surface. No, he would not easily come around to feeling sympathy for her!
But somehow, she convinced herself as she at last felt her eyelids begin to grow heavy, she must find a way to convince him—that, or thwart him and find a means of escape.
Oh, Patrick, she cried silently to the darkness.... Megan... someone, please find me... I'm frightened.... She drifted off into an uneasy slumber.
* * * * *
Ashleigh awoke the next morning to the sound of her door being unlocked. She had been sleeping fitfully, especially in the hours after dawn when her half-awake state was fraught with unsettling dreams of a man wearing an executioner's hood standing over her unclothed body, holding an ax.
She had little trouble, therefore, owing to the lightness of her slumber, in coming fully alert when Higgins entered the chamber. Recalling instantly where she was, she brought her bound hands before her to jerk up the coverlet that had slipped below her shoulders during the night. Willing the blush to leave her cheeks, she then turned her eyes to the manservant carrying a tray toward a stand beside the bed.
Smelling the aroma of hot chocolate and freshly baked scones, Ashleigh realized she was famished. "Oh, Higgins, how very kind of you," she said. "That smells delicious!"
The narrow-faced valet flushed with apparent pleasure at the compliment, but kept his eyes doggedly on the tray as he set it down and said, "Merely following orders, Your Grace." He turned about and headed for the door before pausing and adding, "I'm also to prepare you a bath—" he gestured to an adjoining dressing alcove partially hidden by a blue-and-gold coromandel screen "—over there."
"You are to prepare my bath?" Ashleigh asked in astonishment. When she and Megan had been here in the spring, a bevy of kitchen help had performed that service, for it involved the menial task of hauling heated water up a steep flight of stairs, something a servant with the status of Higgins should not need to do.
Higgins turned; his face flushed pink, and instead of looking at her, he proceeded to stare at a point somewhere on the wall above her head as he responded. "I'm the only one here, Your Grace. The London staff have been given several days' holiday."
"Oh," murmured Ashleigh, unwilling to examine what that implied.
"So, if you'll excuse me, Your Grace, I'll be going downstairs to fetch your bathwater while you enjoy your breakfast."
Ashleigh watched as he unlocked the door, exited, then shut it behind him; a second later she heard the click of the lock. Now it was her turn to flush as she imagined what the manservant must be thinking, being as involved as he obviously was in her incarceration. Then she realized he probably didn't know about her wrist bonds or her nakedness under the coverlet and would wonder why she hadn't begun to consume her breakfast when he returned. Her flush increased as she realized she'd be forced to tell him!
Determining not to allow such a humiliating situation to come to pass, Ashleigh thrust her bound wrists up before her and began to work furiously at untying the knotted blue scarf with her teeth. She only managed to tighten it further, and as the seconds ticked by, she cursed the quality of silk that allowed it to shred so easily while stubbornly refusing to become unknotted. At last she felt herself making some headway, however, and she forced herself to remain calm so that her small white teeth could operate efficiently.
Finally the knot loosened, and she tore her hands free at the same moment that she heard footsteps outside the door. Then as she reached for the tray at the bedside, a second panic set in; if she extracted her arms from the coverlet, Higgins would realize she wore nothing underneath!
Several seconds later, as Higgins walked into the chamber carrying a pair of steaming buckets of water, he came upon the new duchess of Ravensford wearing a blue silk shawl over her shoulders as she nibbled daintily on a scone.
Ashleigh finished her breakfast while Higgins made three more trips for water. Then, when he informed her the bath was ready and she was expecting him to withdraw, she was surprised when he went to a large armoire across the room and proceeded to empty it of the dozens of pieces of male attire it contained.
"Wh—what are you doing, Higgins?" she stammered.
Higgins had the grace to flush deeply as he replied, "I'm terribly sorry, Your Grace, but I've orders from His Grace to remove every article of clothing from this chamber before I leave."
Now it was Ashleigh's turn to flush deeply. Higgins knew! He knew not only that she was being held here against her will, but that she was being kept stark naked in the process, not even allowed to wrap herself in her husband's shirts for modesty's sake!
Higgins left a few minutes later, laden with a huge pile of the duke's clothing, and as she heard the key turn in the lock, Ashleigh began to seethe with frustration and fury. So that was the way of things, was it? Not satisfied with kidnapping her and frightening her half out of her wits, her husband intended to humiliate her beyond decency in front of a high-ranking servant! Oh, he was despicable! He was an unfeeling brute, a worse husband than—
Suddenly she broke off her mental tirade, focusing on one word she'd used... husband.
She glanced down at her left hand, seeing for the first time in twenty-four hours the ornate gold wedding ring he'd placed on her third finger two days before. Hands trembling with rage, she wrenched the glittering band from her finger and hurled it across the room, where it landed with a metallic clink against one of the brass andirons in the fireplace, then rolled somewhere out of sight.
"So much for past mistakes!" she muttered to the empty room before throwing back the coverlet, sliding off the bed and marching straight for the dressing alcove.
Moments later she was soaking lazily in a steamy, rose-scented bath, her heavy mass of hair tied high on her crown by the blue silk scarf. She was just deciding to let the warmth of the water soak away her tension before beginning to scrub with the large bath sponge that had been provided on a short stool nearby, when she heard the door to the bedchamber open. Thinking Higgins had misjudged the time a woman might need to complete her bath, she called out anxiously, "Oh, please, Higgins, I'm not finished yet!"
"It isn't Higgins," said a biting male voice that was all too familiar.
With a groan, Ashleigh sank deeper into the perfumed water, just as Brett's impeccably attired profile came into view beside the screen.
"Wh-what are you doing h-here?" she stammered as she eyed his tall, booted form over the high rim of the brass tub. In addition to shiny mahogany riding boots, he wore a hunter-green riding jacket over a white shirt whose snowy stock appeared dazzling beside the bronze of his summer tan; an unadorned white waistcoat and snug, thigh-hugging, buff-colored breeches completed the image. Unprepared as she was for the sight of him, his stunning virility nearly took her breath away. He was oh-so-unspeakably handsome with his dark chestnut hair curling negligently just above his collar and a lock of it falling rakishly over his forehead!
Then, as the turquoise gaze met hers, Ashleigh realized he'd caught her staring and hastily looked away.
An unpleasant, sardonic burst of laughter broke from his throat. "Did you really think I'd ask your permission to visit you in your bath?" As he uttered the final word, his eyes roamed freely, quite slowly, and, yes, deliberately—insultingly, Ashleigh thought—over her naked form beneath the water, for he was very close to the tub now, and could command such a view from his towering height.
Crossing her hands self-consciously over her breasts in embarrassed anger, Ashleigh felt heat rise to her face
and knew it had nothing to do with the water's warmth. "If it has been your wish to shame me, Your Grace, then know that you have done so, and please leave." Eyes that had gone violet with emotion met his for a brief second, then lowered beneath a sweep of sooty lashes.
Observing the incomparable beauty of the tiny woman before him, Brett knew a moment of regret. She was so exquisitely lovely sitting there, her cheeks tinted with a rosy flush, ebony hair framing her beautiful face so enchantingly with ringlets that had escaped the thin twist of blue silk. And her eyes, when she'd raised them to his briefly, were the same hue they'd assumed when she lay beneath him in passion....
With a muttered curse, Brett brought himself back to the present. She was a lying, deceitful bitch who'd barely warmed his marriage bed before playing him false! She might be beautiful, but beyond that, she was a deserting wife... a cheat... a betrayer... a... woman! And here she spoke of her shame with an order for him to leave in the same breath! Shame!
A shriveling sneer twisted his lips as he gave her his softly spoken retort. "Your Grace, I haven't begun to teach you the meaning of shame."
Ashleigh's lashes fluttered open as she raised anxious eyes to his, all anger gone at the impact of his words. In its place came a hard, cold knot of fear that settled in the region of her stomach. "Oh, Brett," she pleaded, as frightened tears stung her eyes, "won't you please listen to me? I can explain if you'll just—"
An ugly bark of mocking laughter cut her off. "Explain! Explain, Ashleigh? I fail to see the need for any explaining! Indeed, your actions have been quite clear. Having lived up to the letter of your brother's enforced bargain with me, you promptly sought to rid yourself of a slight encumbrance you found yourself saddled with: the small matter of a husband!"
Tears streamed down Ashleigh's cheeks as she shook her head in denial of his words. "Brett, no!" she cried. "It wasn't that way at all!"
"Oh it wasn't, was it?" he mocked viciously, and the bite of his tone cut Ashleigh to the quick.
"No!" she shouted through her tears, a thread of anger returning to her voice. "You're making it sound all wrong, ugly, somehow, and I cannot bear to think you would believe I—"
"Oh, I can believe it, all right," he sneered, "of you... of them," he added, pointing to an ivory carving of several dancing female figures resting on a low table nearby, "of every female alive! You are perfidy itself!"
He was bending forward now, the heels of both hands braced on the rim of the tub while he excoriated her sex. As he spoke, his fierce gaze was riveted on her face, his eyes scorching her with turquoise heat.
But Ashleigh thought she caught something else in his eyes, hiding behind the rage. Recalling some things Megan had told her about the way his grandfather had raised him, she had, at the same moment, a vision of a small boy trying desperately to hold back his tears as his mother's portraits were being stripped from the walls. And suddenly she understood what was happening. Suddenly she understood why, no matter what her own feelings were, she had been wrong—cruelly wrong— to leave him.
Leaning forward until her face was only inches from his, she cried in urgent tones, "Brett, have done with this hatred! I am not your enemy!"
Brett's voice was dangerously soft. "Oh, aren't you?" he questioned.
"No!" she spat, her compassion forgotten at the loathing she read in his response.
"And I say you are!" he thundered, "You, and your kind, more than any!"
"My kind!"
"Yes, you with your surface look of honesty and innocence! You are the most dangerous of all as with your guileless eyes and sweet words you lull a man into believing he might finally trust, might finally—ah, hell!"
White with rage, he took her shoulders and jerked her forward, his fingers biting cruelly into her flesh. Then his hands fell to her waist, and he hauled her roughly out of the tub.
Ashleigh's eyes widened with shock as she found herself lowered to the marble floor, water sluicing off her while she met his anguished gaze. "Oh, Brett," she whispered brokenly, "I never meant to—"
But she never completed her sentence. His mouth came slashing down across hers with a harsh cry. Stunned for a moment by the abrupt reversal in his actions, she didn't move a muscle as his arms came about her unclad form and drew her tightly to him.
But then she felt another change in him. The mouth that had swooped over hers like a hard, punishing thing began to work more slowly, his lips becoming softer, more pliant, as they molded hers in warm, sensual movements. Under this gentler onslaught, Ashleigh found her mouth opening to him, admitting the light thrust of his questing tongue.
When his tongue touched the tip of hers, she felt a fire ignite into a now familiar coil of pleasure at the base of her belly, and she shuddered, quickly reaching wet, slender arms about his neck.
This brought a groan from Brett, and he lowered one hand to span her buttocks, pulling her more closely against his hips where she felt the rigid proof of his desire through the skintight breeches. His mouth shifted to her ear, then to her hair where he muttered hoarsely, "Damn you, Ashleigh! I've never wanted anyone this way before!"
Ashleigh's own passion was soaring and before it grew out of control, she wanted to reach him, to try one more time to make him understand. "Brett," she murmured as he buried his lips in her hair, "Brett, you must understand. I left you because I was afraid—"
Her voice reached Brett through the haze of passion that was building to a fever pitch, and so it was that he only heard the words "I left you," but to him, it was more than enough.
"Damn your cheating soul, you bitch!" he shouted, all traces of passion gone as he thrust her violently from him. "Get yourself out of my sight!"
Ashleigh staggered backward from the force of his shove, and she lost her footing on the now slippery marble floor. Bending her knees and twisting with outthrust hands to break her fall, she landed on the back side of her thigh; this cushioned her fall but was nonetheless painful, yet, when she raised the back of her wrist to her open mouth, it was not the physical pain she stifled.
Brett stood over her, making no move to help her up or in any way come to her aid. Instead, an expression of contempt crossed his features as he snarled at her with ill-concealed loathing. "How appropriate! Stay there, you bitch, for that's where you belong—on the floor with the other dogs!" And with a parting look of pure hatred, he pivoted and quit the alcove.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A slim ray of morning sunlight found its way through the drapes that had been drawn over the single window of Megan's chamber at the White Horse Inn. It slanted across the narrow, empty rope bed and onto the wide-planked oak floor where there was a tangle of blankets, sheets and pillows.
From this mass of bedding Patrick cocked one eye open to see what it was that had dared disturb his blissful state. Noting the culprit was nothing more than an errant sunbeam, he grunted, closed the eye again and reached for the long-limbed woman who lay sleeping beside him.
Megan stirred, then snuggled contentedly into the comforting warmth of his big body. A moment later a smile curved her lips when she felt his beard-stubbled chin nuzzle her ear.
"Faith, but ye be needin' a shave, ye big aulaun," she murmured as the smile widened to a grin.
This time Patrick opened both eyes and raised his head to see a pair of slanting green eyes meeting his gaze. "Ah, so 'tis complainin' ye are, ma dílse, and so soon after our first night t'gither!" he grinned while responding in a fair imitation of the brogue he'd come to love.
Megan's eyes became two limpid pools of sea-green water while she shook her head and whispered, "No, macushla, no complaints."
Patrick's blue eyes held a twinkle as he bent to kiss the tip of her nose. "I should hope not!" he growled. Then his blue gaze softened with infinite warmth. "I love you," he told her.
Megan's eyes shut with the sweet pain this wrought; she reached for him with trembling arms, burying her face in his shoulder in an effort to contain the emotions coursing through her. H
e loved her, and she returned that love with a fierceness she hadn't thought possible. Indeed, when he'd seen her up to her chamber after supper last night and taken her in his arms just outside her door to give her that first intoxicating kiss, she'd been totally unprepared for the emotions that rocked her. Oh, she'd been expecting the kiss for some time, considering her awareness of their incipient attraction to each other. But Patrick had curbed his appetite and bided his time, wanting, as he'd confided last night, to be sure their emotions were of the kind that endure, something more than just a passing infatuation.
And she had not rushed things, either; but on her part the lingering had had more to do with fear. She'd been grossly afraid that she'd be unable to respond to him physically, for she had been like stone to every man she'd taken to her bed in the years at Hampton House. Well aware that she'd always had to fake all the ardor she displayed in her former profession, she had feared that she was, by nature, cold and unresponsive in the physical sense.
So Patrick's kiss caught her by surprise, awakening a passion she'd been convinced did not exist, and Megan had soared on wings of rapture last night, eagerly greeting his whispered suggestion that they spend the night in her chamber. And the joy they'd found together! That the chamber's single narrow bed was inadequate to hold a pair their size had not daunted them. They'd gaily torn the bedding away and thrown it on the floor, and themselves after it, giving themselves up gladly to their passion.
Yes, it had been wonderful, but during the course of the night, when she'd come to realize she was falling in love with him, and now in the wake of his own declaration, a deeper fear had seized her. How, in the name of all the saints, was she going to tell him what she was, or rather, what she'd been?
Oh, it was true that, as he'd begun to undress her there on the floor last night, she'd stopped him briefly to give him a solemn look and said, "Patrick, I'm no virgin." And it was also true that he'd taken in her words silently for several agonizing seconds before he'd responded, "Neither am I," and then gone on to kiss her with such sweet, tender warmth, she'd found her gladdened senses spinning.
